‘And if… and if, in fact, I wanted to be more than kind?’
Henry’s arms were suddenly around her; tight, tighter than she had ever felt. ‘And if I reminded you that you are to be married?’
‘The man I am meant to marry has never told be openly that he desires my hand.’ Anne smiled at the absurdity of it. ‘Possibly because he does not desire it. I think we could dissolve our union with a single look.’
‘Good.’ Henry gripped her, his voice low and fervent in her ear. ‘And if I said that we hardly know one another?’
Anne laughed, not caring about the tinge of hysteria in the sound. ‘Do you not remember what you said, the night of the Spring Ball? We are already the dearest of friends.’
‘I remember everything I said that night. I also remember the things I did not say—above all, I love you. Those were words I should have spoken as soon as I kissed you.’ Henry reached up a hand; Anne sighed as she felt his fingers tangle in her hair. ‘Or as soon as I saw you planting clandestine roses in our gardens.’
‘Our gardens?’
‘Yes. Our gardens. Marry me.’
Anne bit her lip, her chest overflowing with sweetness. ‘And if you decide the pleasures of rakehood are more tempting than wedded bliss? If we come to know one another well, and find our union mismatched?’
‘You severely overestimate the pleasures of rakehood, and underestimate both of our wills.’ Henry’s smile was so soft; infinitely tender. ‘These things will not occur. But rest assured; if you were ever to find me wanting, or if I were ever to take leave of my senses in such a foolish fashion, I would give you every piece of evidence required to wound me grievously in the divorce.’
‘Divorce?’ Anne blinked. ‘I do not know of any woman who has successfully be granted one.’
‘You are an exceptional woman. You must be the first female Head Gardener in England. Believe in yourself.’
‘I do not think I would have to.’ Anne sighed as Henry’s hand moved to her neck, his thumb running along her collarbone. ‘My sister would wound you grievously without need of the courts.’
‘Lydia? She has a sharp tongue, I’ll grant you that.’
‘No. Henrietta. She has any other number of sharp implements.’
‘How charming. And to think some young women learn French.’ Henry pulled her closer. ‘And you still haven’t answered my question.’
‘Possibly because it was not phrased as a question.’
‘True.’ Henry smiled. ‘Anne Hereford, will you marry me?’
‘Yes.’ Anne’s smile grew wider. ‘Absolutely. Yes.’
‘And now for a slightly more scandalous question.’ Henry moved his lips to her ear, whispering low and quiet. ‘May I take you back to the greenhouse, to continue our previous conversation? And failing that, may I take you to bed?’
‘Perhaps I am more romantic than I previously thought, but…’ Anne looked down at the soft Longwater grass, her mouth twisting. ‘But would a bower of roses not be better than a bed?’
‘A bed, a boat, a bower of roses—whatever you wish.’ Henry reached downward, holding his hand tight in hers. ‘But I think the rose garden is closest.’
It should have felt rushed; should have felt too quick, too hasty. Henry dimly thought this as they walked to the rose garden hand in hand, barking curt orders to the surrounding gardeners to make themselves scarce. But from the moment he had met Anne Hereford—from the moment she had smiled at him—time, and patience, and everything done in the proper order, seemed both foolish and exaggerated.
He knew, with Anne. Such knowledge went beyond mere conversation, going deep into the farthest recesses of his heart. Whatever he discovered about her, whatever obstacles would come, he knew that he would always feel this wonder—this breathless sense of having stumbled upon a treasure—whenever he looked into Anne’s open, sunny face.
It was right, completely right, to have her soft hand in his as they entered the rose garden. It was more than right to have her turn to him, her mouth eagerly meeting his with sweet, urgent hunger as they kissed. It was fated, it was destiny, that he would push her against the rose garden wall with barely concealed lust… and have her reach for him.
Oh, how right she felt. She was built for him; her breasts made to fit his hands, her thighs built to rest against her hips as he lifted her up, pinning her to the wall with the strength of his body. She was a gift he had never imagined receiving; his cock strained in his breeches, unbearably close to her soft, welcoming centre. Any time he spent here was not enough—the time he spent with his hands in her hair, his mouth on her breasts, teasing her sensitive peaks until Anne’s gasps became high, breathless cries.
‘Please.’ Her hands gripped his thighs; her hips strained against his own, her meaning clear. ‘Please.’
‘Are you sure?’ Henry murmured the words, even as he hurriedly undid his breeches. ‘We could wait until the banns have been read three times… until your trousseau has been packed, and rings have been exchanged, and we are in a bed with starched linens and lavender under each pillow—’
He stopped, his laughter becoming a gasp, as Anne’s warm hand closed around his cock. She guided him to her entrance, her eyes showing the feverish desperation that Henry felt flooding his soul.
‘I am not entirely sure of the mechanics.’ She spoke quickly, biting her lip. ‘I do know that it will hurt. I also know that I very much wish to do it now.’
‘Good.’ Henry paused, a sudden doubt rising. ‘I do not wish to hurt you.’
Anne’s laughter rippled through him, calming him. ‘You fragile flower.’
Suddenly, there was more than enough time. More than enough time to slowly, tenderly move inside her; time to pause as she gasped, to hold her and kiss her, whispering that everything would be alright. Henry fought to contain his ecstasy, knowing that for Anne this moment was more pain than pleasure; he waited, waited for what seemed like an eternity, until he felt Anne shift and tighten around him.
‘This…’ He paused, struggling to control himself, so deep in her that the urge to finish was overwhelming. ‘This is where I am meant to be. Where I was always meant to be.’
‘Good.’ Anne whispered in his ear, her voice laced with breathless, sly humour. ‘Because I was going to ask you to stay.’
‘Thank God we have enormous grounds.’ Henry kissed her forehead, gasping as she tightened around him again. ‘I intend to take you on every inch of them.’
‘The ice-house may be something of a challenge.’
‘We will consider them in summer.’
Anne laughed. ‘Will we ever find a bed?’
‘You were going to marry a man without ever asking him. I fell in love with you after a single meeting.’ Henry sighed, moving deeper in her. ‘It’s a wonder we’ve managed to get this far. Beds, for us, may be more than we could ever hope for.’
Time began again, ebbing and flowing into a sweet, relentless tide as Henry began to move. Tiny thrusts at most, minute, his hand softly pressed to the small, hard bud of pleasure hidden above her centre; he felt Anne tighten, her gasp a low murmur of encouragement as he continued. Patience, endless patience, enough patience to let his thrusts grow slowly deeper, harder, hungrier… and then Anne’s hands were around his neck, her body quivering against his, her cries approaching complete abandonment.
Yes. Henry felt her release; felt her pleasure wash over him, ensuring his surrender to the moment. Yes, yes, yes.
Always. Forever. Yes.
Four months later, under a sun beaming golden goodwill upon all and sundry, the Hereford sisters hurried along the yew-lined walk of the Longwater gardens. Dressed in their summer finery, ribbons trailing behind them as they walked, their carefree chatter caused the dozing wood-pigeons to ruffle their feathers as they passed.
‘What a perfectly beautiful day for a wedding.’ Henrietta looked at the sky with an impudent smile, adjusting the silk roses on her bonnet. ‘I am almost as happy as I am when I make
mischief.’
‘You will have no opportunity to make mischief today, with Anne’s firm hand overseeing all and sundry.’ Lydia smiled, looking back at Agnes. ‘Enjoy this brief moment of freedom while it lasts. After this glorious trudge through the gardens, we are to be imprisoned in a moth-eaten church.’
‘Oh, I am sure we will be most diverted. Everyone will still be far too scandalised to be on their best behaviour.’ Henrietta looked slyly at Lydia. ‘Do you really think Eustace and the Cartwright girl will attend?’
‘Anne insisted on sending the invitation.’ Lydia shrugged. ‘I will never quite understand her rapport with Eustace. I suppose they are both rather similar.’ She frowned. ‘Between Eustace and that awful man who follows Henry around, I would prefer Eustace.’
‘That’s the third time you have spoken of the Earl of Conbarr in such fiercely negative terms.’ Henrietta’s voice was determinedly innocent. ‘I wonder if I would ever speak so frequently about something I despise.’
‘How you exaggerate.’ Lydia’s tone could have frozen fire. ‘And let’s run—we are in danger of being late.’
As Lydia and Henrietta ran ahead, Agnes put her hand to her bonnet. She blushed violently as she realised one of her silk roses was missing. She didn’t wish to appear before the assembled guests without everything being in place; being in front of others was so terribly awkward anyway, let alone with a disordered appearance.
She looked at Lydia and Henrietta as they talked and laughed excitedly, running a little way ahead of her. It would be wrong to make them wait as she retraced her steps, all for a single flower—she would let them walk further away, and then search the path herself.
Keeping silent, becoming all-but-invisible as only she knew how, she waited until her sisters had walked at least twenty paces ahead. Then, furrowing her brow, she began to walk along the meadow-scented path as clouds scudded overhead.
As much as she loved Anne, Agnes couldn’t help but quietly relish the moment of solitude. Lydia delighted in company, while Henrietta and Anne had always borne it with grace if not real pleasure—only she, Agnes, seemed completely unable to bear society.
She dealt with people, with unfamiliar places and faces, by becoming invisible. It was easy enough, being small and silent and overlooked. Why, when she slipped through the door of the church later, she highly doubted that anyone would notice she was late.
A figure walked onto the path, silently appearing from between the yews. Agnes stopped, her heart in her mouth, completely unprepared for any interaction.
It was Isaac. The gardener was kneeling down in the centre of the path, gently removing Agnes’s silk rose from the mud. As he rose, the flower cradled in his palm, Agnes wondered what on earth to do.
Lord, how dark he was. Weathered by sun and snow, streaks of silver at his temples; dark eyes, as dark as they had been on the day Anne and Henry had stated their intentions—and he was staring at her with unmatched intensity. He reminded Agnes of a statue; harder than flesh, grimmer, touched with a raw, ancient power that she had never felt in any other man. Any other human, if she were being exact.
She realised, with a sudden jolt of surprise, that she was staring back at Isaac. Staring at him with the same concentration with which he was staring at her; from head to foot, slow and unhurried, as if this single look was more important than anything would come after it. Staring with a deep, frank awareness that she had never managed to attain before—and all of it, she noticed, without even a hint of a blush.
She wasn’t blushing in the slightest. That fact alone was enough to move mountains. But then Isaac’s eyes met hers, and the tug she felt at her very core made mountains feel as light as air.
That look. That look made abundantly clear, without even saying a word, that Isaac saw every part of her. It showed every sentiment that Agnes felt battling within her own soul; shock, awareness. Awakening.
As she watched, Isaac moved to the yews that bordered the path. He knelt, his hand briefly vanishing, before standing once more. Looking at Agnes again, his gaze losing none of its potency, he nodded his head—and abruptly turned away.
Agnes didn’t know what to do. Should she call out? She waited until he was quite far away, his figure bold against the honeyed beige of the path, before she walked to where he had been standing.
Her muddied silk rose was no longer there. In its place, nestled in the grass, lay the half-unfurled bud of a white peony.
Agnes looked at the bud, its mother-plant a few feet away. With a small, heartfelt sigh, she picked up the bloom, the petals soft against her skin.
He kept my rose. Agnes placed the peony carefully in her bonnet; it sat amongst the other flowers, glowing. What am I to do?
THE END
The Eglantine Earl
Lydia Hereford was excellent at three things; wearing red, hide-and-seek, and speaking out of turn. Running down the corridor of Longwater House, making sure to avoid the laughing figures of the other guests, she reflected that Easter Sunday at Longwater was the perfect place to display all of her most peculiar talents.
Her scarlet gown was quite the reddest thing in Bath; that much was certain. It was a LeClerc, the last word in sartorial elegance, and the sober cut only made the colour seem even more scandalous. She and her sisters, Anne, Henrietta and Agnes, had only just come out of mourning, their father having succumbed to grief and its many attendant vices over the previous Easter. This gown, this vibrant, deliciously red gown, was a mute declaration to all that Lydia had finished grieving for a man who had barely considered her when she was alive.
It did, however, make hide-and-seek difficult. Lydia kept close to the wall, stealthily pacing over the creaking floorboards, before spotting her prize with a quiet sigh of relief. An out-of-the-way linen cupboard, used for storing guest linens and scraps of cotton rags for cleaning; in other words, the perfect place to hide.
Silent as a wraith, she opened the cupboard door and slipped inside. Shrouded in comforting darkness, the only light that which crept under the door, Lydia relaxed as she surveyed her new surroundings.
Yes. This would do. Footsteps thumped past her as others sought more obvious hiding places; more fool them. Lydia knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this exact cupboard was the best place in Longwater to hide.
It hadn’t taken her long to get the measure of her new home. It had been a most wonderful surprise when Anne had announced her marriage to Henry Colborne; a courtship not without its difficulties, but which had won the day in the end. One of the marriage’s most splendid aspects—apart from, of course, the happiness of her eldest sister—had been the move to the Longwater Estate, complete with its glorious gardens overseen by Susan Colborne, the infamously eccentric lady who had declared Anne the head gardener. Lydia now had tree-lined walks to wander through, frequent visits to London—and best of all, the joy of seeing Anne, Henrietta and Agnes both comfortable and safe.
Lydia indulged in a soft smile, imagining all the gifts that life had so unexpectedly brought her. Then, like a bucket of cold water over her head, she remembered the only disadvantage to her new station in life. A disadvantage that spoke far too softly, was passionately in love with his own opinions, and spent so much time painting flowers on the Longwater Estate that Lydia could hardly believe he had an estate of his very own.
Andrew Balfour. Just thinking the name made her scowl, and Lydia thought it often enough to scare the servants with her expression. She scowled to herself in the cupboard, the name burning in her head like summer branches.
Had a man ever been so loud, and yet so quiet? He was an earl, for goodness’ sake—not quite a duke, but titled enough to be… well… entitled. For a man who could have been stamping arrogantly about the place, commanding all and sundry, Lydia could not fathom why Andrew Balfour chose to behave in such a bored, stiff fashion with everyone apart from Henry Colborne.
All Andrew seemed to do was make comments he thought were clever, in a tone he thought was quiet, to pe
ople he thought were interested. That, and paint flower after flower—flowers of such precision and jewel-like brilliance that Lydia fought the urge to rip them up whenever she saw one drying on the easel.
She knew that it was irrational—deeply unreasonable, in fact. But something about Andrew Balfour made Lydia’s fingers itch, her palms sweat, and her mind turn irrepressibly to mischief. An instinctive part of her knew that she had much the same effect on Andrew; whenever they were forced to speak, she heard the distant beat of battle-drums at the edges of their conversation.
She sighed to herself, suddenly melancholy. Soon Easter would be over, and the spring flowers would fade, and Andrew Balfour would leave. Then, perhaps, she would cease thinking about him quite so much.
A sudden rattling at the door made her scuttle to the nearest corner, frantically searching for the nearest sheet to cover herself with. A pile of clean laundry in need of darning would attract no further inspection—as long as she covered up every single scrap of her bright, beautiful gown.
The door opened; Lydia hastily grabbed a sheet. She prepared to throw it over her head—and stopped abruptly, a scowl forming, as she saw the linen cupboard’s newest occupant.
Andrew Balfour quickly closed the door, not even registering her presence as he leant down to look through the keyhole. Nodding, clearly satisfied with himself, he straightened up; Lydia watched, finding herself powerfully annoyed at the man’s ability to choose hiding places as well as she could. He was always so neat, so quick, so sure… why, he had certainly never done anything even the slightest bit out of place. Such mental order, such tidiness, was always deeply irritating to someone who behaved as untidily as she did.
Still… now was a prime opportunity to unsettle him a little. Letting the linen drop to the floor, Lydia reached forward—jumping back, her hand to her mouth, as Andrew turned.
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